


Burning Bright

by astraplain



Category: Gorgeous Carat
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-14
Updated: 2010-03-14
Packaged: 2017-10-07 23:57:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/70585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astraplain/pseuds/astraplain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the last of my good luck," he told her. "Perhaps it will be the start of yours." Inspired by the story of the Little Match Girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning Bright

"Buy a flower, sir?" Laila held up a small white flower tied with a bit of cheap blue ribbon. Most people walked right past without even looking at her so she was surprised when the young man stopped. He couldn't have been more than a few years older than her, but he walked with the air of someone much older.

He stared at her for a long moment, as if he had no idea what she wanted. It gave Laila time to study him, to take in the expensive but out-dated clothing and the blond hair worn just a bit too long to be fashionable. His skin was fair, almost pale and his eyes were a shade of purple that Ray would surely call amethyst. Laila noted all of that out of habit Ray appreciated details, especially when she was on a reconnaissance mission for his alter-ego, the phantom thief Noir.

The man reached into his pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, setting it in her basket with the saddest smile Laila had ever seen.

"It's the last of my good luck," he told her in a voice close to breaking. "Perhaps it will be the start of yours."

Speechless, she held the flower out to him but he just shook his head and walked away. She watched him go as she picked up the handkerchief, knowing from the shape and weight of it that he'd given her a very generous gift.

XXXXX

The box of toy soldiers was caked with dust. Florian used the rag he'd found to clean it carefully before opening the box. The soldiers were all there, just as he'd left them when mother decided he was too old for such things. He lifted the last of the tin men out, remembering how he'd worked so hard to remove the lower half of one leg so the toy would be just like the story, "The Steadfast Tin Soldier". Florian had made a boat for him and even cut a ballerina out of an old picture book. He lifted up the row of soldiers and saw that the ballerina was still there too, if a bit ragged at the edges.

Returning the toys to the box, Florian added it to the pile along with a trunk of old clothes and some old furniture that was too battered to be worth selling. It would take him hours to take everything downstairs but it didn't matter; he didn't have anything else to do.

XXXXX

Ray Balzac Courland didn't like having his plans interrupted. He'd been intending to pay a visit to Lady Newland's house, specifically her safe, and instead he was paging through old newspapers with Laila, looking for a blond.

The handkerchief the man had given Laila had contained three gold coins, but it was the embroidered "R" that interested Ray. He wondered if there was a family connection and had already made a list of any relatives in their early twenties with a last name beginning with 'R'. The list was half a page long and there was no way of knowing which, if any of those candidates was Laila's mysterious benefactor.

Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and lit another cigar. Outside it was beginning to snow, but the rapidly approaching Christmas holiday was the last thing on Ray's mind.

XXXXX

The stuffed bear was missing an eye. Florian ran his fingers lightly over the neat row of violet embroidery thread his mother had used to replace the missing glass eye. His fingers were dirty and left a smudge on the threadbare toy. He brushed at it for a moment with no success before giving up and adding the bear to the pile for downstairs.

His great-grandmother's doll was there, her porcelain face cracked and her eyes reproachful as he placed a toy drum of his father's beside her on the old tapestry, waiting to be bundled up and carried down with the other remnants of his family's long history in this house.

There was one trunk left and the attic would be finished. His mother had removed the valuables long ago, now Florian was removing the personal items. All that would remain in this vast space he had once thought of as his secret kingdom would be a few pieces of worthless furniture too heavy for him to carry, and some long forgotten memories.

XXXXX

"That's him!" Laila grabbed the paper out of Ray's hand and flipped it over to the front page. In the center of the page under a lurid headline was a picture of a pale young man being escorted by policemen.

"Rochefort Heir Accused of Mother's Death." Ray leaned in to read the article along with Laila. The details were sketchy the young man was out at a party where he'd reportedly been quiet and withdrawn and had had too much to drink. He'd returned late at night to find his mother dead at the bottom of a grand staircase. When he'd called the police it was revealed that he'd dismissed all of their servants earlier that day, leaving his mother alone at home. He'd left the party before midnight but hadn't called the police until nearly one and when questioned, he'd been too distraught to answer.

The article went to reveal that the aristocratic Rocheforts were deeply in debt and that even if the man were proven innocent, he'd have no home to return to and no prospects.

"Can you find today's paper?" Ray asked Laila, waiting until she'd gone to look before scanning the article again. Florian du Rochefort was a distant relative, one of many Ray had never met. He was also, as the article pointed out, the last of the ancient line with ties to the Bourbon kings. From the tone of the writing, the reporter had already judged Florian guilty simply for being an aristocrat. Ray wondered how many others connected to this investigation had similar opinions; it was certain that Florian would no longer have a place in Paris society.

"Found it," Laila called as she pulled a paper off Ray's desk and brought it to him. Unlike the arrest, which was front page news, Florian's release only merited a few paragraphs buried deep inside the paper. The information was scant - the mother had apparently suffered a heart attack and fallen down the stairs and the son had been released. The Rochefort mansion was to be sold at auction to settle some of the family's debts.

"Ray?" Laila said, her voice trembling as she suddenly realized the full meaning of the man's words to her: the end of his good luck. Neither she nor Ray were strangers to hardship and despair, but they'd always been fortunate enough to have help when it was needed. What if Florian was truly alone?

"What's his address?" Ray demanded, springing from his seat. They didn't know this Florian du Rochefort, but he was Ray's relative, no matter how far removed. Ray would be damned if he didn't at least try to help him.

"Rue St Pierre," Laila answered as she followed Ray out. There was no way he was going without her this time.

XXXXX

Florian sang Christmas carols as he decorated the pile of personal belongings he'd gathered from every room in the house. He'd saved the ornaments for last, hanging them from coat pockets and perfume bottles and well-loved toys. His mother loved Christmas.

There weren't to be any presents this year, there wasn't even enough money for a nice meal, but they'd planned to have a cozy fire and share the chocolates mother had received from an old acquaintance. They rarely talked about Florian's father, but she'd promised Florian a story or two in place of a gift-wrapped package, and Florian had been as excited as a child, counting down the days.

He had something new to count now. The garland draped easily and the star went on top quite nicely. He stepped back to admire his work even as he took the matches from his pocket.

They could have the house, whatever was left of it, in the morning. But the things in this pile belonged to his family and those were Florian's to do with as he wished. And he so desperately wished.

The first match lit easily and he stared at it, humming softly so as not to disturb the flame. It burned his fingers before dying. Tears blurred his vision as he selected a second match.

He held this one aloft, picturing his mother and his father and wishing peace for both of them. The light faded and he dropped the matchstick onto the decorated pile.

He picked another match and lit it just as the front door banged open. He turned, shielding the light, not caring who had arrived. He'd left the door unlocked; in a moment there would be nothing to protect.

He cast the match down onto the pile, which he'd doused with perfume and any other flammable liquid he could find. The pile burst into flame as hands grabbed him and yanked him backwards roughly. Florian's vision was blurry, but he didn't need to see clearly anyway.

"Laila, get him out the way. Jacques, Pierre, help me put this out before the whole house catches fire."

"No!" Florian found his voice at last. He pulled away from the hands holding him, moving towards the flames. "They have to burn. You have to let them burn."

"Why?" Laila demanded, pulling him back again while Ray blocked his way and let Jacques and Pierre work. The fire dimmed and Florian let out a cry.

"Let them burn," he sobbed, collapsing onto Ray. The man didn't know what to make of this request so he wrapped his arms around Florian to hold him still and shield his view while Jacques and Pierre finished putting out the fire.

They were all coughing, so Ray dragged Florian to a far corner of the room and asked Laila to open all the windows.

"Why didn't you let them all burn?" Florian said hoarsely. He clutched at Ray's clothing. "Why?"

"If they were just possessions, I would have." Ray motioned for Laila to bring him a blanket from the car, which he wrapped around the bewildered man. Jacques and Pierre had flattened the pile and dumped water on it to be sure the fire was out. Most of the things were charred beyond recognition, but here and there was scattered a cracked perfume bottle, a singed bear or a half-melted toy soldier missing part of a leg.

They closed and locked the door leading Florian out into the snow. He went without protest until they were almost at the car. Without warning, he stopped and looked up into the sky, letting snow fill his vision with white. Half-blind, face streaked with wetness, he let the strangers put him in their car and drive them away.

Rather than look back at the dark shell of his family home, he closed his eyes and leaned back. Smiling faintly he turned towards Laila and whispered, "You smell like flowers."

::end::


End file.
